Virus Hunters 2: A Medical Thriller

by Bobby Akart

  Dr. Boychuck continued. “Many people logically presume a nickname associated with Wolfgang would become Wolfie. That’s not the case. I was born in Munich, Germany, and emigrated to America when I was a young child. When I was growing up, or at least when I began to sprout facial hair, I rarely shaved. Soon, the beard and the ponytail became a part of my persona. Hence, the name Woolie.” He pulled on the gray ponytail as he explained.

  Harper took a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Woolie, since we’re dropping the formalities, please call me Harper. I don’t know how you did it, but all I can say is thank you. If you’ll pardon the pun, you and your friends certainly pulled the wool over those soldiers’ eyes.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed as he roared in laughter. “We most certainly did, didn’t we? Well, I did have some help.”

  “Hey! Is that where they filmed Pawn Stars?” asked one of the epidemiologists to no one in particular.

  Dr. Boychuck grabbed a custard-filled donut and wandered toward the gathering of epidemiologists by the window.

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.” He joined the group and he directed their attention to the Gold and Silver Pawn Shop located on Charleston Boulevard just below the Soho Lofts. He took a moment to point out other sights of interest, ranging from the famed hotels of the Las Vegas Strip to Sunrise Mountain, where the sun was, in fact, beginning to rise.

  Becker skipped the nickel tour in search of a donut. She perused the options and chose a glazed donut. She liked to keep it simple, in stark contrast to her host. She took an oversized bite and locked eyes with her boss. “Why does he stutter like that?”

  Harper appeared bewildered by her statement and then realized she’d never had a chance to tell Becker about Dr. Boychuck’s idiosyncrasies. For the moment, there was too much to tell, especially after what the young epidemiologist had been through that night.

  Harper snagged a pink-frosted donut with brightly colored sprinkles. “He’s not stuttering. He just feels the need, um, you know, to reiterate.”

  Becker glanced over at the rest of the group. She leaned into Harper to whisper, “Dr. Randolph, he has body parts and animals in here. Is he, like, bat-shit crazy?”

  Harper stifled a laugh. She was beginning to get the sense Becker disapproved of the cavalry who’d rescued them from confinement.

  “Okay. Listen, he’s a little eccentric. But—”

  Becker cut her off. With a mouth full of donut, she asked, “Ya think?” A few crumbs dropped on her shirt and hit the smooth, polished concrete floor. She began to reach down to retrieve them, and then she looked around. She stood, shook her head in a why-bother reaction, and cocked her head to stare at her boss.

  “Trust me. He’s just a little different. That said, he is an accomplished pathologist and has an intuitiveness about him that I can’t put my finger on.”

  Becker rolled her eyes, shoved the remainder of the donut in her mouth, and then adopted a yogi-namaste tone of voice. She placed her palms together in front of her chest. “He is one with the dead.”

  Harper laughed and then said, “Don’t laugh. He really is. That guy’s forgotten more about dead bodies than most pathologists have experienced.”

  “If you say so,” said Becker.

  “Do you want coffee?” asked Harper.

  “Duh!” she replied.

  Dr. Boychuck returned to the kitchen area with the group, who immediately ravaged the Real Donut offerings. After some small talk between them, Dr. Boychuck directed everyone to where they could get a little sleep. All but Harper had crashed when she pulled out her phone to contact Joe.

  Harper: Hi there! We’ve been rescued.

  Joe: I heard.

  He did? How does he always know these things? That explains why he hasn’t checked up on me. He already knew I was safe.

  Harper decided to tease her husband. Joe had enjoyed Las Vegas the few times he’d been out there.

  Harper: I’m stuck in horrible conditions. They only feed me donuts and coffee. This is all I can see through my captor’s window.

  Harper took a picture of the view and sent it to him via text message.

  Joe: That’s incredible. So, have you seen Elvis?

  Harper: LOL. No time for him or his blue suede shoes. I don’t think this is over yet.

  Joe: You won’t be bothered.

  Just as that message came through, three loud thumps at the door reverberated through the loft.

  Harper: Gotta go. Love you!

  Chapter Twelve

  Soho Lofts

  South Las Vegas Blvd. and East Charleston Blvd.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The group of epidemiologists had barely dozed off. Still on edge from the ordeal at the Gold Palace, most jumped to their feet and stared at the front door, full of apprehension. Dr. Boychuck emerged from his study, a guest bedroom that had been filled with mementos and journals much like his medical examiner’s office was. He didn’t say a word as he pushed by a couple of the sleepy-eyed CDC personnel. Nodding his head repeatedly, he simply held up his hands, indicating that there was nothing to worry about.

  Harper moved quickly from the other side of the loft to join him in the center of the sprawling open space. If there was going to be a problem with either law enforcement or the National Guard, she intended to take the hit for her team.

  Dr. Boychuck leaned into the peephole and observed the hallway. He began nodding his head and smiling. He opened the door, and an elderly woman strode through the doorway with confidence. Harper presumed that she was in her mid to late eighties, but didn’t look a day over sixty.

  “Good morning, all!” she cheerily announced as she squeezed Dr. Boychuck’s cheek. “I trust Woolie is treating you with a better dose of Vegas hospitality than you received at the Palace.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes,” Dr. Boychuck was quick to respond. “They’ve been fed our finest donuts and coffee. Most were sleeping, Mrs. Mayor.”

  Mayor Carol Ann Silverman, affectionately known as Mrs. Mayor, had become mayor of Las Vegas as part of a political dynasty that dated back decades. Her husband had been the mayor until he turned eighty and, in a landslide, his wife was elected to office to take his place.

  The two enjoyed an interesting relationship since she’d become mayor. Her husband liked to refer to himself as part-time queen consort and full-time ambassador for the city. On the day he turned over the reins of the city to his wife, he bragged how he’d redesigned the space with a balcony to enjoy a martini and cigar after a hard workday.

  Her response was simple. You never worked here.

  The daily banter between the two over the last decade was legendary. She often referred to him as a big buffoon, a phony, a narcissist and a snake-charmer in one breath followed by brilliant in another. Despite their gentle ribbing of one another, they’d enjoyed a great working relationship, promoting the City of Las Vegas while shepherding it through some difficult financial times following the 2008 real estate market collapse and the aftermath of the COVID-19 pandemic.

  She smiled, and in a grandmotherly way, she brushed the fingers on both of her hands as if to tell the youngsters to go back to what they were doing.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your slumber,” she apologized.

  Dr. Boychuck reassured her, “Mrs. Mayor, I haven’t yet informed our guests that you are the reason they were rescued from the evil clutches of the governor’s henchmen. Had you not come up with this brilliant strategy to arrest these fine people, they’d still be locked in that stuffy hotel.” Dr. Boychuck used his fingers to place the word arrest in air quotes.

  “Say nothing of it, Woolie. When you called and explained what had happened, I was glad to help.”

  She was impeccably dressed in a pricey blue Ann Taylor suit. She tugged at the jacket as she surveyed the team. “Who is Dr. Randolph?”

  “I am, um, Mrs. Mayor. Is it okay for me to—”

  “Yes, dear. Everyone does. Even my enemies. Well, they’re not really enemies. There are thos
e around here who think they can run this city better than our family has over the last thirty years. They just refer to me with a little more snark than my friends.”

  “I understand,” added Harper without disclosing her husband’s job.

  “One thing they all understand, however, is this. If our fair city is threatened by a serial killer, or a sharknado, or the Yellowstone volcano, my first concern is for our visitors and those who rely upon tourism dollars. And make no mistake, that stupid antic pulled by our so-called governor last night was not helpful to anyone. It was purely a political stunt orchestrated by the governor’s puppeteer.”

  Harper looked around to determine if the group was listening to the exchange. Only Becker was remotely aware of her encounter with the president on Air Force One.

  “Mrs. Mayor, I have my theories as well.”

  She provided Harper a knowing wink and a smile. “Well, don’t you worry your little head about it, young lady. Things are about to change, but I need to have a conversation with you about what’s happening on Fremont Street. Are you up for a chat?”

  Harper looked around for Becker.

  “You need Starbucks, don’t you?” She was standing behind Harper and startled her with her question.

  Harper swung around. “There you are.”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  Dr. Boychuck glanced at his watch and approached Becker. The two were standing toe-to-toe for the first time.

  “It’s seven o’clock, young lady.”

  “Okay. Starbucks is open, right? Isn’t this the city that never sleeps?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. Very good. It is not New York City. However, there is no need for you to go. I will have the concierge make the arrangements.”

  Becker scowled. “Well, la-di-da.”

  The two faced off for several awkward seconds before Dr. Boychuck responded, “If you would like to make a list of everyone’s drinks, I will have them brought up to us. It appears everyone is awake again.” In fact, the entire team was milling about the loft, viewing Dr. Boychuck’s artifacts, all of which had a story behind them.

  “Okay, Dr. Boychuck. You’ve got a deal.”

  “Woolie, please.”

  “Woolie what?”

  “Please call me Woolie.”

  Becker studied the medical examiner’s face in an effort to ascertain his intentions. She’d need more time to render an opinion of Dr. Wolfgang Boychuck. She retrieved her phone and began gathering everyone’s order.

  While she did, Dr. Boychuck escorted Harper and Mrs. Mayor into his study and pulled shut the frosted glass doors that hung on a door track system above the opening. He tried to excuse himself from the room, but the mayor insisted he remain. The three of them were now alone and free to talk.

  Harper immediately noticed a change in her demeanor, and it was completely opposite her jovial mood in front of the others. Harper sat in a chair offered by Dr. Boychuck. She gripped the arms until her knuckles were white as if she were bracing for an interrogation. Mrs. Mayor paced the floor and looked out the window toward Las Vegas Boulevard.

  The mayor began first. Without turning, she said, “We’re about to have a very candid conversation.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Soho Lofts

  South Las Vegas Blvd. and East Charleston Blvd.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Mrs. Mayor had the floor. She was no longer the baby-kissing, one-line-joking jovial mayor pandering for votes. She’d turned into a battle-tested politician who was ready to vent about what had happened at the Fremont Street Experience without her knowledge or consent.

  “Before we get to your conversation with the president and the truth about this supposed outbreak, let me tell you where we are on this thing,” she began while she paced the floor. To be sure, she would’ve preferred to be in the living area, where she had more space to place her feet. Dr. Boychuck’s study resembled one of the mini-warehouse units where the contents were about to be auctioned off on a reality television show.

  He seemed to take the hint, so he scampered about, shoving stacks of books and piles of journals under his desk. She waved her hand, indicating he should stop.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayor. I really should get better organized.”

  She laughed. “Then you wouldn’t be quite so charming, Woolie.” It was obvious to Harper the two admired one another.

  Mrs. Mayor sighed. It seemed to relieve some tension. “My husband, the pompous windbag of a former lawyer, used to rely upon Woolie heavily. Back in the day, as they say.”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  Mrs. Mayor laughed and looked to Harper. “Agreeable, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Harper was beginning to like Las Vegas. The city was full of interesting characters, it seemed.

  “Dr. Randolph, I’m aware your jet was rerouted to McCarran. I’m also aware you were waylaid by the Secret Service.”

  “How did you—?”

  She waved her arm. “This is my town. I know everything. Almost.”

  “Mrs. Mayor, I didn’t say anything to the president that would warrant this. In fact, it was just the opposite. Even my boss had a—”

  The elderly woman waved her arm and dismissed Harper’s statement. “I know. I had a conversation with our governor last night as soon as I received word of what was happening. He was my first call. I swear, he was in his cups.”

  Harper laughed. It was a phrase Ma and Mimi used often when referring to one of their acquaintances who’d had consumed too much alcohol.

  The mayor continued. “Plus, he was swearing repeatedly in an attempt to intimidate me. Woolie knows that doesn’t work. It’s another sign of his stupidity.”

  Harper asked, “Did he say that his decision to quarantine downtown was because of me?”

  “Not specifically. Frankly, the more he talked, the more he drank. I could hear him on the phone. Plus, he’s overweight. He was breathing heavily as if a half-gallon of scotch was resting on his belly. His lips got loose, eventually.”

  “So, he admitted there was no immediate cause to call in the National Guard,” said Harper.

  “Yes and no, not that it matters at this point. The bottom line is he knows he might have to pull back. The local media is losing its mind over this. The Sun and the Review Journal had camped out at my house before I hung up the phone with the governor. News networks have been staking out my office all night. It’s kind of funny, actually. Nobody knows I’m here, and in a way, it’s a comforting feeling.”

  A light tapping at the glass doors interrupted the conversation, and Becker poked her head in. “I’ve got your drinks and cake pops for everyone, if you’d like.”

  Dr. Boychuck’s tired eyes lit up like a child’s. “Yes. Yes. Yes. The cake pops are to die for.” The lollipop-style cake on a stick was a Starbucks staple on their menu.

  Becker distributed the drinks and provided Dr. Boychuck his chocolate cake pop with baby blue icing. He sat down and enjoyed it while the two women talked.

  Mrs. Mayor sipped on her skinny vanilla latte as she leaned forward on his desk and asked, “I need to know. Am I making a mistake lifting this quarantine? Am I at risk of unleashing a disease like that coronavirus on my city? That almost destroyed our economy.”

  Harper reached out to retrieve a dirt-scuffed baseball bearing the old Las Vegas 51s logo. The minor league team had changed its name to the Aviators when they became a major league franchise a few years prior after the Miami Marlins fled their tepid fan base.

  “Mrs. Mayor, we’re barely through the first inning of a nine-inning baseball game. We have so many unanswered questions about this unknown virus. I mean, will a self-quarantine or lockdown order be appropriate at some point? Yes. But last night’s action only served to make our job more difficult. Now anyone who happened to be on Fremont Street, not just the Gold Palace, will get a tickle in their throat. Or perhaps they’ll get flushed. Or even feel sleepy from normal fatigue. They’ll be flooding your emerge
ncy rooms out of fear.”

  “It’s already happening,” the mayor added. “Just before I arrived here, I received a call from our Emergency Operations Center. Ambulances can’t keep up with the false alarm calls. The hospitals have asked for police security to prevent overcrowding at their emergency rooms and admissions desks.”

  Dr. Boychuck interrupted. “Yes. Yes. Yes. They will never forget 2020.”

  “Right,” added the mayor. “I can’t blame them, which is why I’m asking you these questions. Do I need to put protective measures in place to avoid a repeat of COVID-19?”

  Harper thought for a moment. This was not her call to make without speaking to Dr. Reitherman, especially at this early juncture. “I think you should have your first responders and medical facilities prepared to take on new cases. I don’t believe last night’s actions were necessary. And, as I said, it will make our jobs more difficult now. The CDC’s resources don’t allow for chasing down thousands of leads. Besides that, it was counterproductive. People have scattered all around Clark County and the country at this point.”

  The mayor continued her questioning. “These first cases. The four gentlemen from China. Did they bring the disease over here with them? I mean, this is a China virus like COVID, right?”

  “I won’t know for sure until I identify patient zero. If I can identify the source, the first patient, then we can establish control and prevention protocols.”

  “Well, is somebody in the process of doing that?”

  Harper hesitated. The mayor, like other political leaders, wouldn’t accept not yet as an answer for much longer. Impatience would soon turn into demands.

  “It requires meticulous and arduous detective work. We have to go from case to case to establish where the disease made its first appearance. I believe the answer lies in China. Not just because so many diseases begin there, but because these four men, our first known victims to the disease, traveled from there together.”

  Mrs. Mayor leaned back in the chair. “What do the Chinese say?”